Lynch

For him it has come to pass.
Where he is there is no time.
All existences are true.

I.
He awaits the dropping floor,
The tightening rope that his soul is for
The dream man lingers near, tap! tap!
Tapping by the nearly-dead’s ear.
Does he wince, grimace or smile
When his own creation clicks its feet upon
The stage of his mind? An everlasting omen
Of dark spirits used as tools for his design.

II.
Look at him, wild and funny,
His hair like his creations.
Who is that man? Why does his skin
Reflect ghosts like clairvoyant foil?
- The portal whistles as a lone soul stares –
Is this place always dark? Are these curtains
Always red? Will my feet always tap? I think
The man on the other side can hear. His face
Moves every time I step. But I have no feet,
I have no anything. I might be blind though I see
The color fade in and out, the chequered floor and him.
I suppose now I must walk. Walk, through the forwards
Backwards along eternity. Come and find me here.
This is a dream.
A dream this is.
Is this a dream.
This a dream is.
Dream is a this.
Dream this.
Dream a.
Dream.

In memory of David Lynch (1946 - 2025)